Off Key
by hallonim
Summary: An overheated summer and some dodgy endearments. Tim/Raylan slash.


**Title:** Off Key

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. This is just for fun.

**Rating:** T. A little bit of violence and I tend to make them curse a lot.

**Summary:** An overheated summer and some dodgy endearments. I would place this somewhere before my previous stories 'The Edge' and 'The Deep End'. It's Tim/Raylan slash, because I like it.

* * *

It's hot, and not in a good way, everything's clammy and slow. The air conditioning in the car is giving Raylan a headache. He's been spending too much time in Harlan, out of spite or sentimentality, he's not sure, but It's messing with his focus and he doesn't like that.

He figures he's late for work when he sees a meeting's just about to finish. He strolls in, going for unapologetic 'cause he might as well now and makes the glass doors swing open sort of like they would have in an old spaghetti western movie saloon. He dodges Art's displeased glower and sits down next to Rachel.

"As I was saying… Tim, I know you're juggling a lot of shit right now and getting to Benny Adams is still top priority, but I can't send Hudson out on surveillance without backup…"

Hudson winks at Tim from his corner of the table. Tim just shrugs. "Sure thing, boss."

There's something odd about his expression, it's distant, on the verge of bored. That can't be right. He's been working an insane amount of overtime trying to find Adams, for weeks now. A serial rapist with a luxurious hotshot lawyer who got him out on parole, which he then saw fit to violate by disappearing from the face of the earth. He'd gone after single women with good jobs, stalked them for days and then drugged them so they couldn't fight. Chances are he's looking to get right back to it, and the man is smart which makes him slippery and dangerous. Raylan lets Art's voice fade to the background. Maybe Adams is getting under Tim's skin? He ponders that for a bit, even though he's pretty sure there's no real reason to be concerned. Tim's best at his job when shit's caving in from all directions and he loves a good hunt. _Makes him hard_. Raylan smoothes his hat down a bit so it shades his eyes, subtle like, forces down a smirk, thinks that ain't all that makes Tim hard. He's _lingering_ on that thought when Rachel kicks his boot under the table. He looks at her, then at Art, who looks pissed.

"Raylan, this ain't school which means I can't put you in detention for not listening. You're just gonna have to think of your assignment for the day as punishment for being your usual inattentive self. Are you getting any of this?"

"School, detention, punishment. Got it, Art."

"Good. You're escorting a Mr. Arnold 'Smelly' Doleson back to prison after his hearing this morning."

Raylan had been planning better ways to put his resourcefulness to use, but he figures he should cut his losses, so he nods affirmatively. Art seems okay with that as a general response and heads for his office without further ado. Tim gathers his files and his coffee and heads out too.

Rachel is smiling at him, all sweet and devious at the same time. "I saw Smelly when they brought him in, you might want to bring some air freshener."

"Shit."

"That about sums it up. By the way, do you know Tim's contact at the FBI?"

"No. Why?"

"Well, I could use some information on this guy I think is connected to the Georgian mafia, and my friend in D.C. not only works white collar, but is currently unavailable. I was hoping to avoid troubling Tim about it since they've got _history_… and he's got _more_ than enough on his plate right now."

"Why would I know about his contacts? "

She sighs like he's not getting the point.

"Tim's a volcano. He's steady as a mountain until his insides shift the wrong way and ruptures and he blows up and… he's been working _a lot _lately, Raylan, in case you haven't noticed."

"Is that so? What are we_ talking_ about?"

"I don't know. The weather?"

He frowns at her, fondly, even though he's not feeling particularly patient. She has a way of making him feel out of the loop. His head still hurts.

"Yeah, it's too damn hot. Now, if you excuse me I'll just go… do my job."

"You do that."

The conversation doesn't feel entirely over and done with though. He waits until she settles at her desk before sauntering over, leaning down on his elbows. She looks at him expectantly, he rubs his temples.

"You got any Aspirin?"

"Sure, hold on…"

"Hey, Rachel… you really need to get in touch with Tim's… _friend… _or did you just wanna let me know that you're worried about him?"

She hands him a couple of pills, eyebrows set in that peculiar manner which he can't for the life of him interpret.

"What do you think?"

* * *

It starts with sex. Of course, it's all Raylan's fault, but he doesn't figure that out 'til quite some time later. It's dusk, still muggy from the heat. They're on the couch in Tim's house, ice cream's melting on the table, some preachy war movie with a thunderous soundtrack and pretty young men dying in each other's arms playing on the TV. They've shed their clothes in haphazard piles all over the room and Tim's mouth is shiny wet and swollen from kissing. They're taking their time, keeping it slow until they can't anymore. Tim presses Raylan down, pins him there and bites the soft skin on the inside of his elbow, licks the sting away. Raylan strains against him, struggling for a bit just 'cause he can and then they're grinding against each other, sliding together. Tim's got a fistful of his hair, tugging _just_ on edge of pain, so incredibly goddamn good he can't think right.

"Yeah, baby, just like that…" he hears himself breathe into Tim's sweat soaked shoulder and he doesn't mean for it to be a _thing_, but Tim stops moving and stares at him with way too many frown lines on his face.

"Don't ever call me that." He says flatly and had Raylan been any less turned on he might have taken offense to the level of coherency, given the position they're currently in. As it is, he manages a croaky "ahuh…" hoping it'll get the half-hearted apology across. It seems to, Tim starts laughing, low and hoarse and fucking _dirty_ and then they're moving again, until his vision whites out and his mind goes blank with it. The ceiling comes back into view as his breath slows and the aftershocks die down. Tim's pretending to be asleep. There are smile-induced wrinkles around his eyes. Raylan leans over, boneless and sticky, and kisses him there.

Something like a week later, he's microwaving take away Thai food in the kitchen, thinking about dragging Crowder off to jail in shackles, maybe tied to rope behind a horse, all the while fighting a nagging sense of unease 'cause Tim's taken to wandering the house at night instead of sleeping and that's never a good sign. He's not sure yet, whether it's PTSD related or all about the Adams case. He hopes for the latter**, **even though he's not sure why. He glances over at the man in question, cleaning a rifle by the living room table as he is, all business like, the way he gets when he does stuff like that. It's addictive, watching him. Raylan leans back against the doorframe, bowl of noodles in his hands, and indulges for a bit. Follows Tim's hands as he smoothes them over the surface of the barrel. He's so lost in the hypnotic movements that it takes too long to notice Tim looking up, leaning back and letting his legs fall slightly more apart, eyes all… hooded, hot. "Hey, Raylan…" He says, smirk very well hidden beneath the raspy drawl.

"What?"

"Do you know how beautiful you are?"

Yeah… that shit just don't sound right. Raylan, who's more caught off guard than cares to admit, mutters a _fuck the hell off_ and turns back into the kitchen. He has just about enough time to slam his noodles down on the counter before Tim bursts out laughing behind him. It's a full force laugh, from the belly, a rare sound coming from him. Raylan should maybe be pissed that it's at his expense but it's catching as hell so he figures he'll just go along with it.

Sometime between midnight and dawn he wakes up 'cause the bed's empty. He tries going back to sleep but the vacant space where Tim should be is irritating him enough that he drags himself up and through the eerily silent house. He stops by the window facing the tiny backyard. It's a moonless night but he can see the dark outline of Tim standing there, arms around himself, looking up at nothing. Fucking creepy, that. He brings a carton of milk from the fridge and trudges outside, sits on the steps, taking care not to sneak, Tim doesn't handle sneaking well. He spares Raylan half a seconds glance, then he's staring back out into the vast nothingness of the neighbor's rooftops, shadowy backyards and untrimmed hedges.

"Can't sleep?"

"Nah…"

There's an overwhelming sound of crickets, mingled with distant traffic and city noises. The night air hasn't cooled down any from the day. It's humid and hot. Raylan takes a sip of milk, thinks about slamming into an iceberg, sinking down into the freezing depth of the ocean. It makes him feel slightly better.

The next morning, at the office, he's pondering new and improved angles to get Boyd behind bars and it's tricky, pulling on strings in Harlan tends to set off unpredictable and potentially deadly chain reactions, but there's gotta be a way to get creative with it. In addition, Art is on his ass about follow-ups and some bullshit security detail and how did he ever get this behind on paperwork? His coffee has the nerve to get cold before he remembers it's there. He drinks it anyway, nostrils twitching at the bitter taste. Around ten, Tim turns up, makes a beeline for the copy room and comes back out half an hour later with what must be a shit-ton of files littered with post-its. His sleeves are rolled up, eyelids drooping over a mildly obsessive stare, his hair's messy and he hasn't shaved. He looks genuinely tired, as is only normal for someone spending his nights not sleeping. Raylan is reminded of Rachel's volcano theory and kicks at the wall they share so it wobbles, puts on his best concerned face and goes for a mildly nonchalant "what's up?"

Tim doesn't miss a beat. "Wouldn't you like to know, sweetheart."

It's not even funny, Art's like… right there in the next room and there are _people_ everywhere. It'd be just their luck to have to fend off some kind of hate crime at work. Raylan wrinkles his nose at the thought, glances across the bullpen and thinks _bring it._ Then he remembers that he should at least try to look annoyed. Tim just sniggers and plunks down into his chair. That's alright, vengeance is best served unexpected. He puts his feet up on his desk and takes another appalling gulp of tepid office-brand coffee.

Winona had used a series of endearments on him when he'd screwed up. _You might have told me you'd be working on my birthday, sweetie, my mother's expecting us_. Passive aggressive with a hint of cynicism laced underneath, followed by a swoop of cinnamon scented hair and the clicking of her heels as she swaggered off. He used to love watching her swagger, even though the condescending tone made his upper lip tic. He'd wanted so bad to be the man she had expected him to change into. To join in her cookie cutter dream of creating a white picket fence life far away from Kentucky. Raylan snaps a pen in half and snorts. He could never escape himself or his past and now, sitting right in the middle of everything he'd wanted to leave behind, he's not sure he ever really thought that he could. Winona had seen that and she'd left – twice - he shouldn't have been so surprised.

* * *

He gets back to Tim's place before him, leaves his shoes and socks and shirt and tie on the hallway floor and goes for the Jose Cuervo. It's early still, not even five a clock, but it's been an overheated and frustrating day so what the hell, right? He hasn't seen Tim since this morning. He's been off interviewing Adams victims. That had to have been a hoot.

He's not even halfway to drunk enough, sprawled on the couch, when he hears the door open. There's some clattering from the hallway, Tim discarding his keys and guns, footsteps, a muttered curse as he trips over something Raylan's left on the floor. Tim looks… wrecked. His jaw's clenched, mouth drawn in a thin line. A bad mood then. Great. Raylan sighs loudly, takes another swig from the bottle – there's a glass somewhere, but it felt obsolete, so he's forgotten where – and gets up to take a piss. Tim doesn't let him get far. He sounds even worse off than he looks.

"You're drinking."

"You're observant."

"You're getting drunk, on a goddamn Wednesday, in _my _house."

He's stating the obvious. Raylan gives in to the juvenile urge of an eye roll, says "yeah well, where the fuck else?"

"Maybe at the bar, where you _live_."

He's not sure why that makes him so angry, but it does, so there they are. Raylan has never really been into the whole yellin' and screamin' part of arguing and Tim sure as hell isn't either, so they stare at each other, trying to decide whether or not to bother getting into it. It ends up in a drawn out and edgily silent standoff. Raylan's sucking on his bottom lip, thinking that he'll actually spend the night at the bar_, 'cause that'll really freakin'_ _show him_, when Tim's pissed expression morphs into _I fucking dare you _mingled with a hint of mischief. He moves in close and hooks his thumbs into the belt loops of Raylan's jeans.

"I'm sorry, honey. Let's not fight, huh?"

Tim's full of shit. That much is obvious. He's still has to push down a sudden and utterly unwelcome urge to just… cry. His mama used to call him that. She'd had a hellraiser kind of a smile but a soft voice and _how was school, honey? You still hangin' round that Crowder kid? He's trouble, I can tell._ Worn down, black eyes and bruises around her wrists as she'd reach out and stroke his hair. After she'd gotten sick, she'd been confined to her bed, bleak and papery thin but she'd smile that same way. _Come on over here, honey, tell me 'bout your day. _Raylan bites the inside of his cheek, belly tight from old pain, and forces his mind onto more pressing matters. He grabs Tim in a hug, holds him real close, breath ghosting over the smooth skin behind his ear, "mmm had a rough day Timmy? I can hold you if you wanna…"

It earns him a bite to the collarbone, then Tim smacks his ass and wriggles free, unable to hide a priceless expression of equal parts annoyed and embarrassed.

"Nah I think I'll pass... asshole."

Raylan chuckles, his previous irritation and the unexpected punch of unwanted sentimentality gone. He watches Tim slump down on the couch and take a couple of painfully long gulps of tequila, sulking like he's lost a battle. _Payback's a bitch Gutterson_. Later, they're making dinner. Or Tim is, Raylan is just hanging out, washing down the hard liquor with beer. Tim slams the oven shut and says "according to the psych evaluation he doesn't have sociopathic tendencies and he isn't suffering from any kind of mental illness."

"Who, Adams?"

"Yeah. He didn't have a crappy childhood. His parents were alright, they didn't beat him or anything. He wasn't bullied at school… he played football and got decent grades."

"Huh, well I guess not every dickhead's got an excuse for it."

Tim turns to stare at him, dead serious in a way that makes him look kind of dangerous. An intensity that makes the background blur, the light shift, Raylan's skin crawl…

"He rapes them 'cause he thinks he's entitled to."

He's not sure what he wants him to say to that. That it sucks? The world's a shitty place and life ain't ever fair? That Adams is a monster for thinking he has that kind of right? It's all so obviously freakin' true it feels redundant to just stand here and agree on it. Tim rubs at his face, shifts his focus and turns away, mutters "I'm gonna… I'll just go for a run."

"What, now?"

"Yeah, now."

Raylan shakes his head, aggravated, and swigs the rest of his beer in one go. Running at odd times of the day? Next it'll be dosing off on the porch and waking up screaming. He stares into the oven, then out the window. The grass in the backyard is brown and crispy. He wonders if it'll ever rain again.

There's an old shoebox buried under a heap of junk in Tim's closet. It contains his grade school report cards, a couple of keys, a tiny teddy bear missing both ears and one eye, a silver bracelet with glass pearls and a yellowing Polaroid photo, frayed at the edges, of a woman in converse and a blond mullet, holding a baby. She's very young and she isn't smiling. Getting Tim to talk about his past is like pulling teeth. Raylan hates how much watching him talk about it is like watching him bleed, so he doesn't ask if it can be helped. Tim'll fill in the blanks at random, completely unexpected occasions though. Raylan reckons it's 'cause it allows him some measure of control. He'd dug the box out and put it between them, sitting on the bed one night, said it was all he had left of his mother. Said she'd left before he turned six and that all he could remember of her was painted, bitten down fingernails, the smell of cigarettes and soap and choked, sobbing sounds mingled with his father's grunts, coming from behind the closed bedroom door, an undefined sick feeling in his stomach. Said he's glad she didn't stick around.

Tim comes back drenched, lungs wheezing, chugs something like a gallon of water and goes to bed without eating. Raylan means to say something, anything, maybe even ask how it went with the rape victims, but he ends up alone, staring down his bottle of tequila.

* * *

It's a sweltering hot afternoon; you can see the heat waves stirring the air. Tim is on the steps of the porch, a pitcher of ice tea on the table and a woman sitting close enough that their shoulders are almost touching. She's leaning back on her elbows, formal in a starched white shirt and suit pants but the sleeves and legs are rolled up and she's barefoot. There's a discarded belt with a gun still in the holster next to her. Right, Tim's _friend _at the FBI. Raylan can't remember her name. He only knows her from sparsely told stories and e-mailed crime-family trees, the tone of Tim's voice when they speak on the phone, easy and heavy with familiarity. They had been together for a while, years back, stopped sleeping together but kept in touch.

Raylan feels like he's intruding suddenly. He doesn't live here, his right to come and go as he pleases isn't anything but an unspoken agreement, _it just sort of happened_, and the boundaries of his relationship with Tim are undefined enough that he's got no claim to step right into this. He'd have headed back out, in the direction of the bar, if she hadn't already seen him through the open screen door.

"You're the cowboy Marshal that almost got me fired?"

New York accent with an edge of federal superiority. Raylan bites his lip and smoothes back his hair, steps closer and leans against the doorframe, thinks _game on_.

"How'd you figure?"

"Might be the hat, I've heard rumors about the hat…"

"How is our little Sammy Tonin doing these days?"

She smiles at him like she almost means it, reaches out a hand and meets his eyes straight on. Her voice is steady.

"Better than he should."

Her name's Rebecka and she's got some interesting stories - the kind you only get if you're part troublemaker - a couple of arrests that could make anyone in law enforcement jealous, especially at such a young age, and she's nice. No more than an hour into the conversation, Raylan can't help but like her.

Tim evidently likes her too. He might even have loved her, at one point. It's odd, thinking about him in that context. Or thinking about him from the perspective of someone who knows him the way Rebecka must. He's all relaxed now, leaning back against the railing in that self aware, _self assured _way he falls into sometimes. A slanted grace, sharp as a fucking razor. It drives Raylan mad with wanting him. It's part of what got them into trouble in the first place. That, an abundance of alcohol and his own deliberate disregard for convention.

They're in the middle of a heated discussion on the fate of Robert Quarles, when Tim's phone buzzes from somewhere inside the house. Rebecka watches him fixedly as he gets up and leaves. There's a beat of awkward silence, she's digging her toes into the dry dirt of the backyard, he's watching her do it. She speaks first.

"Sometimes… I think I should have held onto this one when I had the chance."

Raylan shifts a bit, not really uncomfortable, but not exactly in his element either. She looks at him, something like a challenge in her eyes.

"He wouldn't have let me though. Tim commits to causes, not people."

She doesn't stay very long, she's got places to be, murders to solve. She leaves a folder for Rachel, _of course she does_, puts a hand on Tim's knee as he moves to follow her out, kisses him right on the lips and says "no need to get up, soldier, I'll see myself to the door. You know, we should catch up more often."

Tim grins at her like he knows they won't. Like that's what they always say. "Let's."

There's a rusty and revoltingly moss green 1973 Dodge pickup truck that won't start, stashed in Tim's garage. He claims it came with the house. Some time back, when they were still just screwing around, Raylan had been on his way out and had caught sight of him working on the engine, knowing full well it was useless, oil up to his elbows and his Beretta stuffed down the back of his pants, humming something so off key it'd been completely intelligible. He'd known then, that in their own way, they'd fit together. Off key and rough around the edges.

Tim's face is turned towards the sun, he's holding a glass, more ice than tea, to his forehead, condensation dripping down his flushed cheek, hair behind his ears curling from sweat. Raylan pounces like a wolf on prey, dragging him inside by the hem of his jeans. He pushes him down on the floor and smoothes a hand up under his shirt, around his back, sucks a viciously purple mark over the pulse on his neck. Tim grabs at him but Raylan holds his arms down and moves to bite at his lips, leaving slick strings of spit between them. He peels clothes like layers, like he's looking for something. There's a curious spark in Tim's eyes but he lets Raylan put his hands and mouth all over him, lets him press inside, unhinged and _hard_ against the rough floorboards. He tastes like salt and comes all loud and messed up.

By sunset, the sheets are damp from sweat and tangled at the foot of the bed. Raylan can't get comfortable. He kicks a couple of pillows down on the floor, shifts and bends a bit. He can't stop picturing what Tim must have looked like with Rebecka, how he'd touched her and fucked her. He wonders if he'd been different with some anonymous hookup, in an alleyway behind a bar or a seedy back room at a club… The air is thick with their mingled smells, still too hot like outside, like there's no escaping it. He twists his fingers until his knuckles pop, goes to take a cold shower. Tim's sulking by the bathroom mirror, poking at a magnificent hickey on his neck.

"Fuck sakes, Raylan, how am I gonna explain this to Rachel, huh?"

* * *

Deputy Marshal Gareth K Hudson is an asshole, a fact the entire Lexington office and most likely the state of Kentucky, knows to be true. It's the blatant narcissism; it gets annoying. He's with Tim when they find Adams in a car outside one of his previous victim's house. Hudson get's an urge to play hero and runs right at him, flashing his badge. Adams naturally panics and shoots him in the leg.

Raylan's at Audrey's, having a cup of coffee and an unheated argument with Ava, when it goes down. Rachel calls him from the hospital, says Hudson will be fine but he might end up with a limp. She says Tim had stayed with him, held the gushing bullet hole shut, and Adams had gotten away.

"I caught up with him in the parking garage… I asked if he was alright, he said _fine _and then he punched the cement wall and split his knuckles…"

There's an undercurrent in her tone. It says _fix it_. Raylan's not entirely comfortable with that_. _He's not fit to fix anyone. The drive from Harlan feels agonizingly long but he still arrives at Tim's place just a couple of minutes after him. His shirt is smeared with dried blood, it's under his fingernails and crusted into his hair. There's a bandage covering his left hand; he must have spared the one he prefers to shoot with. He avoids eye contact, shrugs off his shoes, goes to change his clothes and then to get a beer from the fridge. He's moving all harsh and determined. So, still angry, then.

"Tim…"

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"There's nothing you can say right now…" He chokes on the last word, goes jarringly silent and pushes the back of his good hand into his eyes.

"It ain't your fault he got away."

Tim laughs somberly, whispers a barely audible "right" and hurls the beer bottle at the wall. It explodes in a wet crash and leaves a yellowish stain dripping down the wallpaper. Raylan all out of words, figures there's nothing he can say that'll make it better anyway so he keeps his mouth shut. Tim stares at the shattered glass, face empty now, runs a hand through his hair and offers a garbled "gonna go for a run", then he's out the door.

Raylan doses off on the couch. He startles awake around midnight when he hears the shower turn on, lingers somewhere on the edges a dream he was having until he feels Tim sliding down beside him, putting Raylan's feet in his lap. His face is flickering lime green and grey, light coming from the muted TV. He seems smaller now, painfully young in his loose fitting sweatpants, an old army t-shirt with holes in it and wet hair. He strokes Raylan's foot absentmindedly, eyes closed.

"I just really needed to catch that piece of shit today."

Raylan yawns and stretches a little**.** "I know darlin', I'm sorry."

Tim huffs softly and smacks his knee, but he slides down a bit further and breathes all even and slow like he's falling asleep.

He does catch Adams. No more than three days later, at a cheap motel in Paris. Raylan's elsewhere, caught up in his own web of issues. Rachel tells him about it over late night coffee because Tim won't talk. He also won't go home, like he's glued to his desk and his never ending game of Solitaire. Rachel's still a bit jittery, left over adrenaline making her talk fast and slurred.

"He had his Taurus aimed right at us and he was waiving a knife around. A bread knife, I think. The lousy kind with teeth… Anyway, it was strange because who does that when they've got a gun, right?"

The sun's blinding, silhouetting Adams and the fleabag motel at his back in a halo of light. They're squinting against it, heat scorching their faces. Rachel takes care to breathe slow, counting the beats of her pulse, her finger steady on the trigger, ready to pull. "Put the gun down."

Adams is smiling at her, tongue flicking out to wet his lips, it makes her sick. "I've had women like you, marshal." He says. "I've had _plenty_ of women…_ just_ like you."

It makes her angry, too angry to trust her voice to stay collected enough. Tim's standing to her left, she can't hear him so she glances over, he's not even blinking. When he talks, his tone is heavy with authority, imposing and definite.

"Hey, Adams… look at me."

He obeys like a dog might, instinctively and instant, but his stare is defiant, there's still a hint of a smile. He aims at Tim's head. Tim doesn't flinch, he keeps his gun leveled.

"I know you usually make things go your way. This ain't like that. You're not calling the shots here, you get that, right?"

Adams barks out a laugh but his hands are shaking. He's out of ammo and he knows it - Tim and Rachel don't - not yet.

"You can't kill me. I won't let you."

"You have no say in what I can and can't do,_ Benny_."

Adams face falls a bit at that, he's shifting his weight back and forth uneasily, façade cracking. Tim takes a cautious, smooth step forward."You have no say at all."

Rachel watches Adams reaction, hyperaware, as he lunges the knife at his own throat, a last attempt to end it all his own way. He misses mostly, makes a pathetic, wailing sound and goes for it again. It's a mess, but they pull his hands away before he manages to hit an artery.

Rachel puts her coffee down on the table, combs a hand through her hair and sighs, drained. "He's probably gonna make it."

"Huh..."

"Yeah."

Raylan gives her a ride home, then he sits in the car outside her house for a while, trying to decide where to go. Tim had been walled off and silent back at the office, dismissed any attempt to talk or leave. Raylan sort of wants to go back and shake him 'til something breaks lose, or maybe just hold onto him for a bit. He wants to ask if he's disappointed that he didn't get to shoot Adams dead, but he doesn't. He stays at the bar a couple of nights instead, 'cause it's where he's supposed to live.

* * *

It's a Tuesday and Raylan's pretty sure that he might die. He's in Harlan. He'd gone to follow a lead on Crowder's Oxy related affairs and ended up arguing with this heavily bearded old coot that didn't know shit. He did apparently suffer from paranoid schizophrenia and had covered the field behind his rackety old shed of a house with landmines he'd gotten hold of in the seventies. Raylan had been planning the next Harlan related string to pull when he'd heard the 'click'. He's lucky that he'd had the presence of mind to freeze and call Art. Now, hours later, half the marshal service of Lexington is there gawking at him, there's a swarm of local police and a bomb squad, hard at work.

Raylan's mostly okay, apart from the fact that he can't feel his feet, his legs are cramping and there's sweat rolling off his forehead and into his eyes. He's angry, sure, and slightly worried about being blown to hell or losing parts of his body that he'd rather keep, but shit happens and so does death. Tim's here though, standing out of harm's way but close enough for Raylan to see his expression and it's off, is what it is, 'cause it's one he's not seen before, and here he'd been thinking that he'd seen them all. Tim is scared shitless. He really shouldn't be watching this, but he's refusing to look away, stubborn goddamn kid. Raylan squeezes his eyes shut pointedly and prays, even though that's not something he's really inclined to do, that this is the moment his telepathic skills start working. _Close your eyes Tim, come on now, don't look. _ It's no use. Tim's still staring, looking as if he'll split apart right along with Raylan, who'd much rather die in peace and out of sight.

It takes hours, or at least it feels that way, until the mine's disarmed and it's alright to wobble away to safety. He aims for Tim but get's pulled off track by a team of paramedics who insist on a whole array of nonsense, since he's fine, like blood pressure and covering him in a scratchy blanket even though the heat is unbearable as it is. Tim stays close by, he's twitching sort of like he does after nightmares and he's sweating with the effort of trying to hide it. Raylan meets his gaze through the small crowd and for a few seconds, it's torn up in pure _hurt_. Then Art strolls over and his mask slips into place like clockwork, which is both impressive and scary. They fix it so they get to ride home together. Raylan says he's a bit too shaky to drive, Art tells him "no shit" and Tim offers get him back home safe.

He drives on the speed limit, stays silent for a couple of miles, face like stone, then he turns the car onto a tiny dirt road, pulls over, tumbles out into the grass and throws up. Raylan is still not entirely steady on his feet, but he makes it out okay and sits behind Tim, puts a hand on the small of his back, right over the curved scar he knows is right there, jagged and ugly. He tries to remember the story that goes with it, but his mind is drawing a blank. It's something to do with seeing his buddies die bloody, he's sure. He'd kill for a drink right now.

Tim takes a good long while, then he leans back and scoots over, Raylan pulls him in between his legs, back against his chest, and wraps his arms around him. Tim uses his shirtsleeve to wipe his eyes and then his mouth, grimaces and spits, wipes at his mouth again. Raylan holds him tighter.

The night his mama had gone to stay at Noble's Holler, her face had been all busted up, upper lip split and blood crusting under her nose. She'd been trying not to cry as she'd dragged a suitcase down the stairs. He'd held onto the hem of her jacket, tugging her back to him desperately, but she hadn't stopped. She'd kissed his head, her tears dripping down his face, and then she'd been a shadow fading down the road. He'd watched until she was all gone and then crept back inside to wait for Arlo to come home, drunk and abandoned with only Raylan there to take all that anger and hurt out on.

He breathes steady into Tim's hair, feels his heart stutter a beat too fast under his hands, and thinks that sooner or later, whether by choice or not, everybody leaves. No claims, no boundaries or rules or commitments can stop that, so what use are they? What he has with Tim… it's right _here, _between them. Visceral and so _real_ he can almost touch it. It's enough. Tim's voice is muddled and raw and his accent is thick the way it get's when he's drunk or really tired. "I'm okay, you know."

"Yeah, you look it too."

"Fuck you."

"Ah come on baby, don't be like that."

"Raylan…"

"Ahuh."

"That thing… with the darlin's n'the honey's n'stuff…"

"Wow, Timmy, I'm impressed by how well you're puttin' your words together… "

"Shut up. That thing though… I don't wanna do that anymore."

"Why?"

"Ran its course."

"Okay."

There's a lengthy pause, then Tim reaches back and pats Raylan's cheek clumsily, says "you know you're only keeping your place at the bar to keep up the bullshit hetero-normative appearances, right?"

Raylan laughs softly, relieved all of a sudden, feeling like a piece of a puzzle he didn't know he was working on slides into place. He kisses Tim's clammy temple, then his neck.

"You really alright?"

"I really am."


End file.
